


Two Brooklynites and One Big Apple

by whatthefoucault



Category: Captain America - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse (2018)
Genre: Art School, Brooklyn, Crime Fighting, Food, Friendship, M/M, Museums, New York City, Secret Identity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-12
Updated: 2019-06-12
Packaged: 2020-05-02 04:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19192210
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault/pseuds/whatthefoucault
Summary: “You did good out there today,” Captain America said, brushing a layer of detritus from his unfathomably broad shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”“Not if I see you first,” replied Miles, fingergunning with one hand as he sent a web rope fwipping off into the distance with the other, catapulting himself away at tremendous speed.... in which two superheroes battle with bad guys, embark on community art lessons, and a friendship forms along the way.





	Two Brooklynites and One Big Apple

**Author's Note:**

  * For [verbalatte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbalatte/gifts).



> Massive thanks to [verbalatte](https://archiveofourown.org/users/verbalatte/) for being such an amazing artist to work with, and to [calendulae](https://archiveofourown.org/users/calendulae/) for the wonderful beta!
> 
> Be sure to show the gorgeous art some love on [tumblr](https://verbalatte.tumblr.com/post/185546883411/my-first-capreversebb-piece-is-here-written-by) and/or [twitter](https://twitter.com/verbalatte/status/1138887659743584257)!

It was good that he had arrived on the scene when he did, thought Miles. Granted, Captain America could probably have taken on that gang of henchmen on his own, or so he had asserted at the time, but it was Miles’ intervention that had stopped the bus shelter from collapsing on that startled labradoodle.

As the police rolled in, taking statements and file reports, Miles ducked around the corner, lest any of his father’s work colleagues notice him there.

Then he remembered he was still in costume. Oh yeah, he thought. Mask. Duh.

“Hey kid, before you go.” Captain America stood in the alley’s entrance, his imposing triangular form silhouetted by the rolling disco lights of the squad cars behind him.

“Oh, hey,” replied Miles.

“You did good out there today,” he said, brushing a layer of detritus from his unfathomably broad shoulder. “I’ll see you around.”

“Not if I see you first,” replied Miles, fingergunning with one hand as he sent a web rope fwipping off into the distance with the other, catapulting himself away at tremendous speed.

“Not if I see you first?” he cringed internally as he navigated the rooftops of the neighbourhood in search of a good place to hide forever and never show his face anywhere again in his life. “Come on, Miles.”

He had never felt more compelled to web-sling himself directly into the sun. 

\---

It had been so long since Steve Rogers had set foot in an art classroom; long enough, it seemed, that the prospect set his nerves on red alert with louder and brighter alarm than facing down fearsome monsters, corrupt institutions, or destroyers of worlds. With his rucksack affixed firmly over his shoulder and a pencil tucked behind his ear, he felt nineteen again, but less prepared, and somehow more nervous.

This was ridiculous, he admonished himself: this was not college, not for exams or grades or qualifications, not for a job or an exhibition. This was a community art session in the studio space of a local museum, an opportunity to re-sharpen his skills and maybe learn a few new things. No pressure. This was fine. Steve braced himself, and strode into the room.

And almost immediately, he was punched squarely in the senses with a fist-shaped smell of pencil shavings and well-varnished old wood, and the faint burnt-metallic tang of an over-worked space heater. A dozen or so students of all ages were already setting out their supplies as he manoeuvred himself carefully through the room, in search of a free space. Okay, he thought. He could do this. He could belong here again. He was almost starting to convince himself.

“Is this... seat taken?”

The young man next to him said nothing, but stared, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, making a sort of wheezing sound.

“Are you ok?” asked Steve, tentatively reaching out to place a hand on his shoulder, but stopping short.

“Mm-hmm,” replied the young man in an unconvincing high-pitched squeak, but nodding nonetheless.

Steve nodded, setting his pencil case down and taking a seat. He was fortunate enough that New York was, in general, sufficiently unfazed by remarkable events that encounters with admirers were few and far between, and this stunned kid was the exception, rather than the rule. He hoped he would be able to Steve Rogers his way through the class without startling any other children.

The class began in companionable silence, as the gathered students got to work interpreting the figure sitting in what Steve hoped was a comfortable pose in the centre of the room. He had almost forgotten just how the sound of a dozen pencils and pens scraping against a dozen sheets of paper felt, the strangely communal task of capturing various angles of a likely bored volunteer.

Unlike Steve, who favoured a single, basic sort of pencil, or sometimes a nub of charcoal, he could not help but notice that his neighbour was whipping colour upon colour from his bright little pencil case. It was, if nothing else, a testament to the way two artists could be presented with the same form and somehow emerge with two wildly different pieces at the end of it.

Steve was out of practice, to say the least: despite the reasonable amount of time he now spent scribbling sketches of his friends (mostly Bucky, which would likely surprise no one) it had been years since he last applied himself in anything resembling an academic setting, to make a serious study of shape and shadow and form. He paused over the curvature of the model’s bony, angular knee, then looked at his drawing again, then back at the knee. That was not how knees were meant to bend, he thought. Was it? He puffed out a slow breath, and redrew. It was all just practice, he reminded himself, and carried on.

It was hard not to notice that his neighbour was surreptitiously checking out his handiwork as the artists packed up, and the model quietly surveyed the many and varied renditions of them around the room.

“So, what did you draw?” asked the boy.

Steve sighed. “Just... don't judge too harshly, okay? I'm still pretty rusty.”

The young man smiled. “Are you kidding? This is really good,” he enthused. “The lines, the angles, it's really... strong.”

Steve could not help but smile in return. It might have been lip service for all he knew, but it was kind.

“Thanks,” he said. “Your turn.”

The kid's work was vibrant, dynamic, blazing with colour and life, shapes almost buzzing with brightness and depth.

“Well?”

“It's beautiful,” Steve told him. “Pretty unorthodox for a life-drawing class, but beautiful.”

“Realistic figure drawing’s not really my aesthetic,” the kid shrugged, tucking his work carefully into his backpack, “but my dad signed me up for these classes as a birthday present. And it’s good practice. What are you doing here... Captain?”

“Steve's fine,” he smiled, as they made their way past the rest of the museum's studio spaces and out the quiet back door.

“I’m Miles,” said the boy. “Nice to meet you, _Steve_.”

“Nice to meet you too,” said Steve, filled with the pleasant lightness of heart that came with making a new friend.

That was, until he tripped over an unseen piece of masonry, sending him tumbling, face-first, to the pavement.

Except that the expected impact never came.

\---

Miles froze. Oh damn, he thought. So much for the whole secret identity deal.

“What's happening?” asked Steve, still suspended mere inches away from a faceplant. Miles had, in a moment of pure heroic instinct, shot out a rope of web to catch him before he hit the floor. “Am I frozen in time?”

“Nope,” said Miles, flustered. “Let me just, uhh, reel you back in.”

He slowly hauled Steve back to standing, helping him to his feet.

“That's... web,” he observed, eyes wide with surprise as he dusted himself off.

“Web,” replied Miles, smiling nervously. “It’ll dissolve on its own after an hour or two, but you might want to put your jacket through the wash.”

It was not the most auspicious of heroic reveals, to say the least; in fairness, however, he _had_ just saved Captain America’s life. Or at least saved the integrity of Captain America’s handsome Roman nose and impeccably-maintained front teeth.

“ _You’re_ Spider-Man?” asked Steve.

“Yep,” replied Miles, affecting as much feigned insouciance as he could... feign. “I sure am.”

“Wait a second,” Steve blinked, as though trying to keep up, “I’ve met Spider-Man before, and he’s from Queens, so that means – ”

“Also Spider-Man, yeah,” offered Miles. “It's a whole... thing. Timelines, multiverse, you know.”

Steve grimaced. “Oh god, of course,” he said. “Those are the _worst_.”

“So complicated, right?”

“Literally,” agreed Steve. “Listen, I’ve got to go get groceries before dinner, but - are you old enough to drink coffee?”

“Hey,” replied Miles, following Steve into the café. “There’s no legal drinking age on coffee.”

Steve raised an eyebrow. “You sure it won’t stunt your growth?”

“I'm positive,” said Miles, leaning in before continuing in a low voice, “I’m, you know... _enhanced_. I’ll take a cortado.”

Before Miles could begin fishing through his shorts’ many pockets for the requisite change, Steve held up a hand in insistent protest.

“This one’s on me,” he said. “You saved my... face.”

Miles beamed, taking a seat by the window. The place was achingly cool: Little Simz was playing, there was a selection of vinyl for sale, the espresso roast of the week boasted notes of nectarine and honeydew melon. Did Captain America always hang out at coffee shops that were achingly cool? Did Captain America listen to Little Simz? Steve set two drinks down at the table.

“Cortado.” he said. “So how long have you been…”

“A _gymnast_?” suggested Miles, raising his eyebrows pointedly as if to say, come on dude, secret identities. Steve sipped his flat white.

“Of course,” he nodded, “a _gymnast_.”

“Okay,” said Miles. “My name is Miles Morales. I was bitten by a radioactive... interest in gymnastics. And for the last like eight months, I’ve been your friendly neighbourhood…”

“Got it,” Steve assured him. “I probably don’t need to tell you how long I’ve been... a captain.”

“Nah, they kinda covered that in, like, middle school history class.” Miles tried his coffee. Oh yeah, he thought, that was definitely nectarine.

Steve chuckled softly, shaking his head. “Of course they did,” he said.

\---

“You’ll never guess what happened at the museum,” said Steve, setting his art-laden backpack and grocery-laden bags carefully by the door. Bucky was already crossing the living room to greet him, strong arms finding their way around Steve, the shadow of a beard tickling Steve's neck.

“What did you do this time?” he asked, the words muffled against Steve’s skin.

“Hey,” protested Steve, kissing Bucky’s soft earlobe, “what makes you always think it’s something I did?”

“It’s an educated guess.” Bucky shifted back a step, and regarded Steve for a moment, eyes shining with fondness. “All right, already, tell me what happened at the museum.”

“I made friends with a Spider-Man.” Steve carted the heavy groceries into the kitchen.

“A Spider-Man, huh? You sure you weren’t saving the day when you were supposed to be sketching a bunch of weird poses?” Bucky threw open the cupboard, unslotting the almost-but-not-quite finished box of cereal from its jenga-like grid, and sliding the new one into its place.

“The kid’s in my class,” countered Steve, squishing the new milk carton into the refrigerator door. “He’s a good artist, for a high school student.”

“Oh my god, he’s just a baby.” Bucky folded the empty shopping bag into a neat square, stuffing it unceremoniously into the overfull bag-of-bags that hung from the back of the kitchen door. “So you’re, what, mentoring this kid now?”

“Actually, I think he’s mentoring me,” said Steve.

Bucky stared at him for a long moment. “What the hell does that mean?” he asked.

“It sounded profound in my head,” shrugged Steve. “Wanna do grilled cheese for dinner?”

\---

“What are you guys working on this week? You on landscapes yet?” asked Miles’ dad, flagrantly attempting a furtive glance at Miles’ sketchbook, as though Miles would not notice.

“Nope,” Miles hastened to reply, snapping his sketchbook shut, only just catching his dad’s finger between the pages. “This week, we're doing a self-portrait. _Next_ week we take it outside.”

“Maybe you’ll be the next Bob Ross,” Dad said, ruffling Miles’ hair, which he had just finished doing, which had been _perfect_ , thanks Dad.

“Thanks, Dad,” he said, zipping up his backpack and making his way out the door.

His mother was on shift that evening, which meant his dad was cooking, which meant baked potatoes. Miles liked his dad’s baked potatoes, crisp and fluffy, packed with enough butter to saturate every starchy molecule, and laden with heavy spoonfuls of sour cream, gratings of whatever cheese was hanging out in the fridge, a generous sprankle of finely chopped chives for a whisper of sophistication, then salsa - or, if salsa was in short supply, a good squirt of sriracha. Simple, satisfying, good. Plus, it was enough complex carbs to keep his spider-metabolism going without feeling peckish for a midnight snack at nine-thirty, which, it turned out, was a problem.

At least his parents could easily chalk it up to his Miles being a growing boy, and he could snack without suspicion. Man, he thought, he should have brought a snack before leaving for art class. He checked the time: assuming he could web-sling discreetly the rest of the way to the museum, there was no reason he could not stop at the grocery store on the next corner and get a bag of Doritos. And a Gatorade, because hydration is important to a growing spider, and maybe a pack of those dense, barely-pleasant powdered donettes in case emergency rations were in order later.

Scratch that, he thought, enticed by the delightful fried-things smell wafting over from the empanada place across the road. This was a day for beautiful little pockets of purest joy.

\---

Steve was there first that day: he debated whether it would seem rude to place his jacket on the adjacent seat, thereby saving it for his friend, but Miles arrived before he could decide, plopping down, taking a moment to catch his breath, sipping on a vibrant iced drink.

“Well hello there, fellow art student,” he said, with a polite bow.

“Greetings, young man,” replied Steve, setting out his supplies for the afternoon’s work.

His sketchbook fell open to his last, heavily scribbled page: like most of his practice, it was a disorderly mess of half-started bits, aborted studies of local architecture, attempts to remember what a rhinoceros looks like, a good half dozen Buckies.

“Got yourself a better looking model than last week's dude?” Miles chimed in.

Steve smiled softly. “That's Bucky,” he said.

“Oh yeah,” nodded Miles, “your sidekick.”

Steve laughed with incredulity. “Sidekick? Who the hell told you that?”

“Like, every account of Captain America I’ve ever read,” shrugged Miles. “Okay, okay, so... bff?”

“... boyfriend,” confirmed Steve, knowing that the blush resting upon his cheeks was threatening to take over the entirety of his face. It was still new, and at once somehow as old as time itself.

Miles blinked. “Seriously,” he asked.

“Yeah,” nodded Steve, “is that - ”

“That is so cool!” Miles enthused, beaming - then collected himself. “I mean... that’s cool.”

Steve chuckled, shaking his head. “Okay,” he said. “I mean, it _is_ pretty cool.”

The lesson began, and Steve got to work. He had never been terribly keen on drawing his own face; after all, he saw it often enough because he had to, when he shaved in the morning, in the reflection of the toaster while he waited for breakfast, on a selection of tacky merchandise he grudgingly endorsed on the condition that a percentage of proceeds went to helping refugees or bumblebee conservation. Being a public figure was a strange phenomenon at the best of times. He recognised that this, however, was an opportunity to say something about himself, on his own terms, but what did Steve want to say about... Steve? Who the heck was Steve Rogers? What did Steve Rogers want?

He swiped open his phone’s camera, switched into selfie mode, and scowled at himself.

A few minutes of awkward sketching in, he noticed that Miles was visibly, quite suddenly, agitated.

“You ok?” he asked in a loud whisper.

“Uhh, I gotta _go to the bathroom_ ,” replied Miles, gesturing insistently with his eyebrows.

“Down the hall, first on the right,” shrugged Steve, resuming his work. Less than a minute had passed when a text came in, which read:

_spidey sense tingling henchmen in special collection think its a heist could get ugly_

Ah, an escape from self-portraiture! he thought, immediately chiding himself for taking any delight in a crime happening. “Gotta pee,” he muttered, dashing out of the room as casually as he could manage.

He spied a beat-up old metal trash can in one corner of the large, nearly empty installation space, and took the lid with him as he ran after the thieves. It had been many years since he had wielded a shield as unsophisticated as this one, but it would do.

“Sir, I’m afraid that’s actually part of the exhibit!” he could hear an exasperated security guard call after him, following him, albeit slowly, through the museum.

Steve was sure he would have sheepishly shuffled his feet, had he not been sprinting at top speed. “I’ll return it when I’m done!” he called behind him.

\---

Oh damn, oh damn, oh damn, thought Miles, catching his breath, pulling on his spider-mask. Three henchmen, as far as he could tell, in a very busy gallery.

It was amazing how few people ever seemed to look up, he thought, clinging by his fingertips to the ceiling. Now, he thought, who of these casual gallery-goers were looking most like they were trying not to look suspicious?

Just then, his spidey-sense twanged again, as he spied a trio of exceptionally casual individuals walking with suspicious levels of purpose through the exhibition space, one of whom seemed to be carrying a large overnight bag. It was as though they were barely even trying, thought Miles: they could at least stop to pretend to admire the exhibition of weird mid-century photographs of chairs. Some of them were really cool chairs! Like, what group of gallery-goers would be so insistent on getting out of there as speedily but leisurely as possible that they could not be compelled to take a moment to admire that huge canvas of a photo of somebody who looked like they were probably a musician who made that old atonal free jazz Miles’ dad listened to, sitting sternly in the very centre of a three-seat sofa upholstered in an array of browns? Miles had found time to admire it, and he was very much there on business. He followed them along the ceiling into the weird atrium: now, he thought, was the time to strike. Gotcha, hench-losers.

Pew pew, he tried not to say aloud as two of them went down under a splat of web; the third, unencumbered, clutched the bag to his chest and sprinted for the door, right into Steve’s... trash can lid. An excellent bit of freestyle heroic improvisation, if Miles did say so himself.

“Now that’s what I call a sticky situation,” Miles heard a security guard say, as he invisibilitied himself away to an unoccupied bathroom stall, to change back into his civvies. Come on, dude, he thought. _Everybody_ makes that joke.

He took a moment to catch his breath, tucked his spider-mask under his hoodie, and walked briskly but casually back to the studio.

“Hey, Steve,” he said, sliding back into his seat. “Did I miss anything while I was in the bathroom?”

“Nope, nothing,” nodded Steve, as they both got back to drawing.

\---

Steve found Bucky waiting for him in the museum’s spacious, minimalist atrium, perched on one of the bizarre circular blue sofas dotted about the space.

“Don’t suppose those police cars around the back were anything to do with you,” Bucky smiled, greeting him with a warm kiss.

“Hello to you too,” replied Steve, his words marinated in good-natured sarcasm. “Nice to see you. How was your day?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Bucky shook his head. “Who’s this mysterious child?”

“Oh! Yeah,” said Steve, remembering that, oh yeah, Miles was there. “Bucky, this is Miles, my classmate. Miles, this is Bucky, my boyfriend.”

“Hey,” replied Miles, with a shy wave.

“You should be more careful who you hang around with,” Bucky told him. “This guy’s a bad influence.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Thanks, Buck,” he said.

“Okay,” nodded Miles, pulling a paper bag from his backpack. “Empanada?”

“Is your backpack just... full of empanadas?” asked Steve, gratefully accepting a little golden parcel. 

“Something’s gotta keep my super-metabolism going,” argued Miles, tucking into his snack. “Don't you get, like, seriously snack-hungry?”

“I do eat a pretty big breakfast,” conceded Steve, taking a bite. Even at room temperature, it was luscious.

“So you’re a spider, huh?” Bucky asked Miles, his tone suitably hushed, as they walked out into the park.

“Mm-hmm,” nodded Miles, mouth full of snack.

“Sounds fun,” said Bucky.

“You get stuck in traffic a lot less,” Miles told him, “you know, when you can just yeet yourself across town because... web.”

Miles held up his hand, palm forwards, as if to indicate... web. Bucky nodded. Steve nodded.

They parted ways at the west end of the park: Bucky and Steve made their way home, and Miles ostensibly yeeted himself back to his apartment. 

“He's a good kid,” said Bucky, as they opened the front door.

“Yeah,” smiled Steve, “he’s... a squirrel.”

There, perched patiently on the back of their sofa, staring back at them with big adorable brown eyes, was indeed a squirrel.

“What the hell,” squinted Bucky.

“How the hell did a squirrel get into the house?” asked Steve.

“How the hell should I know how a squirrel got into the house?” replied Bucky. “Quick, stick a big bowl over it and put it outside!”

“Enough,” the squirrel interrupted them. “I bring a message for your friend Spider-Man.”

Bucky sighed. “Of course it talks,” he said, with tired resignation.

“Who sent you?” asked Steve, attempting to place himself between Bucky and the squirrel, just in case the squirrel lunged at them, or shot lasers out of its eyes. Bucky shifted to one side, attempting to place himself between Steve and the squirrel. Steve shifted in front of him again, then Bucky in front of Steve, and so on, but with more shoving, until there were mere inches between the two of them and the squirrel.

She shook her head. “The message reads as follows,” she said, pulling a small scroll she had tucked into the pretty bow tied around her neck. “‘Dear Spider-Man, please stop arresting my henchmen. Let’s talk instead, afternoon tea, tomorrow.’ Here's the address.”

The squirrel handed over the paper. Williamsburg, apparently.

“Uhh, thanks,” said Steve. “Why are you telling me this?”

“I’ve been sent on behalf of someone who... doesn’t know where Spider-Man lives, but has reason to believe you do,” explained the squirrel, “so unless you’d be so kind as to give me his address…”

Steve crossed his arms sternly. “Forget it.”

The squirrel shrugged. “Fine. You know, when you’re visited by Ratatoskr, it’s customary to convey your thanks with a small tip,” she suggested, “some mixed nuts perhaps, any macarons you happen to have on hand…”

“Don't push your luck,” replied Steve, with his sternest head-tilt. The squirrel shrugged, and scampered back out the window.

\---

“So the squirrel wasn’t kidding when she said afternoon tea.”

Miles puzzled at the airy, minimalist tea room around them. Going by past experience (that was to say, plenty of films, comic books, and television programmes) he was expecting the address to lead them to an abandoned warehouse, or the poorly-lit corner of a parking garage. What he had not expected was a charming selection of loose-leaf teas, dainty pastries, and tiny sandwiches with the crusts cut off.

“I’m feeling kind of overdressed,” observed Steve, his already impressive frame further enhanced by his tactical uniform, giving him the appearance of a dad sitting down to a tea party with his child on one of those kid-sized Ikea table-and-chair sets that Miles’ apartment had never had room for when he was growing up. Not that he had ever super wanted one or anything.

“Mood,” replied Miles. “How the hell am I supposed to drink tea through my spider-mask?”

“You’re early,” declared an elegant woman, who seemed to have appeared out of nowhere. She swanned over to their table, availing herself of the third seat. “Oh, and you ordered tea, how thoughtful.”

“Actually, that was - ” Miles began, but she had already begun plopping far too many lumps of sugar into the cup.

“So... Spider-Man,” she groaned. “I’ve been known to face off against gods, and win. Who’d have thought that a literal newborn baby boy would be the new bane of my existence? You and your... your disc man, your sidekick?”

“Sidekick? Really?” protested Steve.

“Sidekick? Yeah, that's Captain America... my sidekick. And I’m not a baby! I’m,” he replied, pushing his voice as far deep down into his chest as he could, “I’m twenty-one.”

The woman pursed her lips. “Sure you are,” she shrugged. “Mortals... I’ve come to talk.”

“Okay, let’s talk,” agreed Miles. “What do you want with the artifact?”

She sighed. “You fools, that _artifact_ you so rudely intercepted was no ‘Old Norse Apple Sculpture,’ it is a golden apple of Asgard,” she said, tapping her exquisitely-manicured fingernails against her teacup. “They are the lifeblood of the Asgardian people, and with all that has befallen Asgard of late, they’re in dangerously short supply. I’m sure you understand.”

“So what’s it to you?” asked Miles.

“Why, I am the goddess Iðunn, keeper of the golden apple tree.” As if on cue, she was haloed by an ethereal golden glow.

Either that, thought Miles, or someone behind her was photographing their flat white for instagram and forgot to switch off auto-flash.

“Ah horseshit,” disputed Steve. “We’ve fought before. Amora, right? The Enchantress.”

“Verily,” she sighed, “but I go by many names, Captain, and Amora is but one. And I still need that apple.”

“Okay,” replied Miles. “Why should we trust you? How do we know this apple isn’t secretly some kind of super-powerful magical weapon? Maybe it’s a bomb.”

“Maybe it’s a grenade,” added Steve.

“Maybe it’s an infinity gem,” continued Miles.

“Please don’t let it be an infinity gem,” groaned Steve. “I’ve had it up to here with infinity gems. Seriously, fuck those things.”

“Oh please,” she scoffed, “what would I want with those?”

“You kind of have a track record of acting entirely for your own personal gain,” argued Steve, dunking a crumbly shortbread cookie into his dainty cup of Assam.

Amora smiled. “Fine,” she conceded, “perhaps it just so happens that this time, my own personal gain coincides entirely with the fate of the people of Asgard.”

Miles could swear a light bulb had just switched itself on directly above his head. “Dude,” he said, “why don’t you just ask the museum to return it?”

“Oh, my sweet little child.” She shook her head with a soft, incredulous chuckle. “Do you really think I could just walk in there, explain myself, and walk out with it? If they knew how valuable that little apple truly is, do you really think they’d just... hand it to me?”

“... Yes?”

“Well, if all else fails, I could ride in on a winged horse with a flaming sword in my hand and ransack the place, but violence is so tedious, isn't it?” Amora shrugged, gesturing idly with a flourish of spring green magic. “Besides, there’s something charming about this little city of yours. So many good places to eat those triangular open-faced sandwiches you love so much.”

“Pizza?” ventured Miles.

“That's the one,” she smiled. “Pizza. Love it. Okay, we’ll try it your way, and when that doesn’t work, I’ll fetch the flaming sword.” 

\---

“I can’t believe that worked.”

Amora stared, in unblinking awe, at the apple in her hand.

“Told you so,” shrugged Miles, as he and Steve escorted her from the museum.

“Thank you, Spider-Man,” she smiled. “I shall remember this kindness, should our paths cross again. Fare thee well, little boy!”

And with that, both the Enchantress and the apple vanished in a puff of magic.

“Well, how about that,” said Miles. “We did it.”

“You did it,” replied Steve. “I don’t know about you, but I could go for an ice cream.”

“Tell you what, I’ll do you one better."

\---

Damn, thought Steve, New York City was beautiful from so high above it. The sun was low over the dense cluster of buildings that lay before them, the sky casting a glow of deep red and pink and yellow and purple over the streets and windows. Miles handed his crumpled ice cream wrapper to Steve, who dutifully stashed it in his pocket to dispose of later.

“... so then I did this humongous backflip out of there and the Goblin was all like ‘nooooooooooooooo!’ while his army of evil slime dissolved into the river,” he told Steve animatedly. “Totally non-toxic, obviously, because otherwise like. Oh damn, right?”

“I’d have loved to see that,” smiled Steve, hastily slurping at his ice cream before it could drip on his glove. “But what happened to the horse?”

“We found her a good home on a farm upstate, with plenty of room to, I dunno, frolic,” he replied. “The farmer’s sent me a few pictures. Apparently, she doesn't seem to realise she’s like twice as big as the other horses, and she’s very happy. And I still got a B on my physics midterm, so, you know... I can be good with that.”

“Yeah,” agreed Steve. “That’s really good.”

It had been a good day, he thought; Steve’s workplace problems rarely had nonviolent solutions, but every once in a while, someone managed it. Those were good days. Miles was a good kid.

\---

Miles had been looking forward to landscape week: not necessarily out of an especially intense interest in painting happy little trees, really, but rather it gave him an opportunity to bust out some spray paints in the well-ventilated out of doors.

“Hey Miles,” Steve waved to him, already having set up a large canvas with a nice view of a large, gnarled old tree overlooking the pond.

“Hey, dude,” replied Miles. “You bring your travel shield, in case of emergency?”

“You know,” Steve sighed, glancing at the rough forms he had begun to sketch out, “I’m kind of hoping we might just get to make art this week.”

“Yeah,” chuckled Miles, contemplating the pair of ornery swans fighting over a soggy, discarded hot dog bun. “Me too.”

\---

“You sure this is secure?” asked Steve. It occurred to him that it might have been prudent to ask _before_ finding himself suspended upside-down in front of a large, unadorned brick wall, with a spray can in each hand and an unconvincingly confident Miles holding the other end of the web-rope.

“Sure I’m sure,” replied Miles. “This stuff can hold things way heavier than you. You’re good.”

“What about you?” asked Steve, tentatively spraying a streak of paint.

“Stronger than I look,” Miles assured him. “But, you know... might wanna swap places in a few minutes.”

It was Miles’ idea to work on a mural together, and Steve was happy to seize the opportunity to work on something very new, and very different. As he worked, he found it was not unlike the pencils he was used to, albeit on a much larger scale. There was still so much out there, so many artistic media he had yet to explore, to find which one gave him the voice he was looking for. This was a good start, he thought. He was glad to have made an art friend.

If anyone asked the significance of their collaborative golden apple tree, Miles and Steve would tell them it was kind of a long story.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks so much for reading! I very much hope you enjoyed this little slice of Brooklyn. Feel free to leave a comment below, or come say hello on [tumblr](http://whatthefoucault.tumblr.com)!


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